


Small Mercies

by MadameHyde



Series: Stand With Me Now [3]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Felix Fraldarius is bad at feelings, Heavy mentions of Glenn, It's mature because LANGUAGE, It's the Garreg Mach Ball y'all, Let Ingrid cry 2k19
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 12:24:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20778533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameHyde/pseuds/MadameHyde
Summary: Sometimes in this life, it was too difficult to count one’s blessings. So instead, Felix and Ingrid (and Sylvain) have learned to count the small mercies.





	Small Mercies

The month before the annual Garreg Mach winter ball was the most aggressively festive occasion Ingrid had ever lived through. 

Granted, after the horrors she had witnessed at Remire Village, she really couldn’t bring herself to mind. She would much rather have a laugh at Lorenz getting spectacularly shut down by Leonie, or marvel at Ferdinand surprising everyone (especially the girl herself) by asking Bernadetta to the ball, than to be forced to dwell on what had happened in that village for any real length of time. 

Holly and ivy hung from every discernible surface that wasn’t directly in the cathedral, and light snows had begun dusting the monastery and its surroundings. Even the professors were in on the festive cheer, what with Professor Manuela’s jangling, fur-trimmed cloak and the floppy, ivy-covered hat that Sylvain and Ashe had convinced Professor Byleth to wear during lecture a few times. (No one had learned much, but Byleth didn’t seem to mind.)

And then there was the ball itself. Officially, it was the annual celebration of the completion of Garreg Mach Monastery almost a thousand years ago, and unofficially, it was just about the only opportunity for the Officers’ Academy let its metaphorical hair down. And after this particularly difficult year, no one was complaining about a chance to relax a little--even workaholics like Annette and Lysithea.

And while relaxing was all well and good, balls meant fancy clothes and expensive dinners. 

And fancy clothes meant money. 

Though noble, House Galatea was not particularly well off. Ingrid had hated to write home to ask for father to send her something to wear for the ball. It felt so vapid, so _girlish _in the face of the coming, inevitably harsh winter. Maybe one of Mother’s old gowns could be repurposed? Additional fabric added to that one nice dress she had worn to her brother’s wedding a few years ago? Really, it didn’t matter what it was, she just couldn’t wear her uniform, or her armor. 

Her father had said he’d see what he could do. Just like he always did.

Felix and Sylvain had not understood her issues, partially because House Fraldarius and House Gautier were both far better off financially than House Galatea, and partially because, well, they were boys. No doubt, their fathers would send them furs and tunics with a bit of embroidery and that would suffice. 

Being a girl really was a kick in the ribs sometimes. 

She told Mercedes as much while sitting on the older girl’s bed as the cleric yanked a comb through Ingrid’s hair. Something about practicing doing hair for the ball; Ingrid wasn’t exactly sure how she’d gotten roped into this.

“It’s not so bad,” Mercedes said. “Pegasi like us better, and we have the pretty clothes.”

Ingrid winced as Mercedes yanked at a particularly stubborn knot. “We also have to worry about what we wear to stupid fancy events.”

“I’m sure you’ll look lovely, whatever your father finds,” Mercedes said blithely. 

Ingrid wasn’t so sure. Her mother had been the one with all the taste in the family.

“Knock, knock!” called a voice from the door, followed by actual knocking. 

“It’s open!” Mercedes called, still working through whatever she was doing to Ingrid’s hair. 

A moment later, the door swung open to reveal Sylvain and Felix, the former carrying a large traveler’s trunk. 

“We have a present for you, Ingrid,” Sylvain said with a dazzling grin, thumping the traveling chest on Mercedes’ desk. 

At the concerned look on her face, Felix added, “Our parents sent our clothes for the ball in a bundle.”

This was the moment of truth, then. Ingrid got to her feet, her half-up hair falling sideways, and went over to the trunk. She drew in a deep breath, and then opened the lid. 

One of the boys’ pelts was on top, so she had to sift through the contents a moment before she stumbled upon a swatch of beautiful evergreen brocade.

And immediately dropped it in shock. 

“Did something bite you?” Felix asked dryly, at the same time Mercedes asked, “Is it hideous?”

“I don’t own this,” Ingrid said, hurriedly digging through the trunk again. 

“Is there a note?” Sylvain asked. 

Ingrid found one a moment later, a bundle of letters addressed to Felix, Sylvain, and herself. She passed the boys theirs and then tore hers open, confused as to what in blazes was in this trunk. 

But the letter, as it turned out, was not from her father, but from Lord Rodrigue.

_Dearest Ingrid,_

_I do hope all is well with you as you enter your final semester at the Officers’ Academy. And congratulations on the Blue Lion House’s victory at the Battle of the Eagle and Lion! Rest assured, those of us back home are quite proud of all of you._

_Felix had mentioned the annual Garreg Mach ball a few letters ago, and your father had mentioned something about getting an old gown of your dear mother’s repurposed. As you can probably imagine, my lady wife was not thrilled with the idea. _

Ingrid couldn’t help but laugh a little at the thought of Felix’s mother rounding on her father and demanding to know what he was thinking. Duchess Fraldarius was nearly as formidable as her husband, and most certainly where Felix’s wry demeanor had come from. 

_She has always lamented our lack of daughters, and so she took it upon herself to have something new fashioned for you. She insists it will bring out the color of your eyes nicely. _

That also sounded like Felix’s mom. 

_I hope you know that we consider you part of the family whether you’ve married our son or not, so please, enjoy the evening of the ball, feel as lovely as you are, and do make sure Felix actually goes?_

_Affectionately,_

_Rodrigue Fraldarius _

“Well?” Sylvain asked. 

It took Ingrid a moment to find her voice. “Felix’s mother had it made.”

Felix pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course she did.”

“Hey, at least your mom cares,” Sylvain immediately argued. 

Ingrid, too, opened her mouth to defend Duchess Fraldarius, but was quickly distracted by Mercedes, who was unabashedly rifling through the trunk. 

She gasped hugely a moment later. “Oh, Ingrid, you’ll look beautiful!”

“Why,” Sylvain asked, coming around to see what the fuss was about, “what did they send?”

“No, no, no,” Mercedes said, snapping the trunk lid shut and narrowly missing Sylvain’s fingers. “You boys don’t get to see it until the ball.”

“Oh, come on, it’s _Ingrid_,” Sylvain said. “She’s like our sister.”

Felix was still stuck on something from earlier. “Did you really just ask ‘why?’”

“Then _as _your sister,” Ingrid said irritably, “get out of Mercie’s room!”

She shooed them out the door with practiced aplomb, Sylvain spluttering and Felix grumbling. This ball would quite possibly be the death of her, but at least she wouldn’t stand out amongst the other nobles for all the wrong reasons. 

“Have they always been like this?” Mercedes asked as Ingrid sat back down on her bed. 

“Not exactly,” Ingrid said, “but nearabouts.”

A second loud banging came from the door. “Ingrid!” Sylvain was shouting. “Mercedes! Can we at least have our clothes?”

-)

The morning of the ball was largely spent hunkered down in Ingrid’s room. The Blue Lion girls, plus a few from some other houses, came and went as they pleased, bringing with them makeup expertise, hairstylist abilities, and a lot of unbridled excitement. 

“Okay, Ingrid,” Annette was saying as she crouched over her friend with a makeup brush, “you’re almost done. Just gotta touch up this one little thing.”

Ingrid felt distinctly out of place, even in her own room. She wasn’t used to being treated as delicate, let alone feminine, and it sat somewhere between nice and dreadfully uncomfortable. She wondered if this was how Edelgard or Lysithea felt, knowing that the two of them were equally as put off by extraneous frivolity.

“Ooo, is this what you’re wearing?” Dorothea asked from across the room. She was thumbing the fabric of Ingrid’s dress with a practiced eye. 

“Yes,” Ingrid got out around Annette’s overzealous makeup brush. “It’s, um, new.”

Dorothea let out a melodramatic gasp and put her hand to her head like the wounded heroine in an opera. “Ingrid Brandl Galatea! Tell me you didn’t go shopping without me?”

Ingrid couldn't help it; she snorted. “When would I have had the time?”

“Hold still!” Annette ordered, her tongue now poking out slightly as she concentrated.

It would have been unkind to laugh, since Annette was doing her a favor, and so Ingrid forced her head still and glanced back to Dorothea. “It was a gift,” she said.

“Ooo,” Dorothea said, now twice as invested, “from _who?”_

“Duke and Duchess Fraldarius.”

Dorothea cocked her head. “Why would Felix’s parents send you a ball gown?” 

Annette paused in making over Ingrid’s face, her sweet, blue eyes asking without asking if Ingrid wanted to tell the story or not. Ingrid bowed her head, staring at her calloused hands in her lap. It was so much easier when someone else said it.

“Ingrid and Felix’s older brother were engaged to be married for a long time,” Annette said quietly, after a moment. “He died protecting Dimitri at the Tragedy at Duscur.”

Dorothea’s jaw dropped and her lips loosed a quiet “Oh.”

Ingrid swallowed past the lump in her throat. “It was very kind of them to send.”

Dorothea practically jumped at the opportunity to bring the topic back around. “Yeah, this is beautiful! Duchess Fraldarius has excellent taste.”

Ingrid smiled, just a little, and lifted her head back up. Annette immediately beset upon her again with her makeup brush. “She and my mother used to love shopping in Fhirdiad together. They’d find the most interesting things.”

Again, Dorothea cocked her head. “Used to?” 

Ingrid sighed. This was at least easier to talk about; the grief was far less raw. “My mother died, a long time ago.” Dorothea opened her mouth in shock, but Ingrid pressed on. “It’s part of why Duchess Fraldarius sort of adopted me over the summers, growing up. She always said she’d wished for Glenn and Felix to have a sister, and that I needed a mother.”

“How kind of her,” Mercedes said with a genuine smile.

“How did such a kind woman end up with Felix for a son?” Dorothea wondered aloud.

“Felix…” Ingrid sighed. There was a _lot_ she could have said about Felix. “...wasn’t always like he is now. And underneath the ice, he’s…” She stopped, and laughed a little. “Never mind, he’d kill me.”

“No, no,” Dorothea said, wagging a joking finger at Ingrid. “_That _can’t get cut off.”

Ingrid relented, just a little. “Underneath the ice, he’s actually very sweet. It’s just all backhand, and if you point it out, he’ll fight you.” She paused, and then heard herself say, “His brother was the same way.”

Before anyone could comment, Annette piped up: “Ingrid, you’re done!”

“Thank the goddess!” Ingrid said, only half jokingly. “Mercedes, it’s your turn.”

The girls puttered about for most of the rest of the day, fiddling with this hairpiece or that smudge of eyeliner, just generally killing time, chatting over tea and scones, until finally, it came time to dress and descend to the ball.

Ingrid had never cared much for clothing that required assistance. It was a dreadfully time-consuming, vulnerable thing, to need someone to help you dress, and it was always impossible to hold a lance in the outfit. Logically, Ingrid knew the intention was that there would be no _need _to defend herself if she were wearing such a thing, but that didn’t make it any better.

“Ready?” Mercedes was standing behind her now, holding the laces of her corset. At Ingrid's nod, the cleric added, “Let me know if it’s too tight.”

Annette, already fully dressed in an empire-waisted gown of blue and orange, was playing with her hair in the mirror. “Do I look okay? I don’t usually wear my hair down…”

“You’re perfect,” Mercedes declared. “Any boy would be lucky to dance with you!”

There was a reason Ingrid had consented to all of this girly, getting-ready-and-then-going-to-a-ball nonsense. It wasn’t that she enjoyed the fancy party overly much, nor the getting ready, nor the excitement over possibly being asked to dance by a handsome boy, nor the inevitable wine they’d all drink. It was because she hadn’t the heart to tell Annette and Mercedes that formal occasions hadn’t been fun in a very long time, and it was just too hard to watch other couples happily bask in each other’s company.

But somehow, the other Blue Lion girls had known anyway, and avoided landing dates for the evening. Ingrid was simultaneously relieved to have friends to attend with, and pained to know that they had probably turned at least a few somebodies down.

“And you’re perfect too, Ingrid,” Mercedes added, finishing off the corset with one last tug. 

Ingrid caught a glance of herself in the mirror. The girl in the elegant, evergreen gown, with her eyes ringed in makeup and cheeks somehow pink, hardly looked like the Pegasus Knight known for swooping in for the kill at the last moment and dragging a certain two boys to class.

“What did you _do _to me?” Ingrid asked, only sort of joking.

“Just helped you out a little.” Mercedes smiled demurely, passing the matching, fur-lined caplet over to Ingrid.

The Pegasus Knight immediately felt better with her shoulders covered.

Annette helped Mercedes into her gown, a graceful white sheath dress with gold inlay, and then the three Blue Lions Girls were ready. Perfume was passed about, hair was checked over just _once _more, and then it was time.

They exited Ingrid’s room just as Sylvain and Felix were coming down the hall from their rooms at the end.

“That’s it,” Sylvain announced as soon as they were in earshot, “it’s settled. The Blue Lions have the loveliest women in the Academy; it’s just fact.”

Felix rolled his eyes and slammed a bony elbow into Sylvain’s ribs.

Mercedes and Annette both giggled, and the former said, “And don’t you boys look dashing?”

It was true, Ingrid supposed. Sylvain had tamed his riotous red hair, at least a bit, and the dark, heavy pelt on his shoulders and open collar of his tunic emphasized just how _broad _he had become. Felix’s hair was half down for the evening, raven-black and making Ingrid’s heart ache, and a grey fox pelt was secured over one shoulder to swoop dramatically behind his wiry frame. They were dressed in their house colors--Sylvain in the ruddy Gautier red and Felix in the sober Fraldarius blue--and Ingrid could hardly believe she was seeing the two rowdy boys she had grown up playing knights and maidens with, and frequently dragged to class or out of the training field, respectively.

Felix turned red to the tips of his ears, but Sylvain grinned and strode forward, offering an elbow to Mercedes and Annette. “And would you lovely ladies care for an escort to the ball?”

Annette giggled, her laugh bubbly and infectious. “I don’t see why not?”

She looped an arm through Sylvain’s left, and Mercedes, with a little laugh of her own, looped her arm through Sylvain’s right, and off they went.

Felix rolled his eyes again, and Ingrid wasn’t exactly convinced he wasn’t trying to cover for how red his face had become. He still offered an elbow to her, proper as anything. “Well, my dear Lady Galatea, shall we?”

Ingrid couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her--“Oh, I _suppose, _Sir Fraldarius.”--as she looped her arm through his. 

Stairs were a challenge in full skirts, and Ingrid was pleasantly surprised to have Felix’s elbow to steady her. It was far easier to navigate the treacherous stone steps with something to hold on to.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Felix paused, debating something. “You do look lovely,” he finally said, “by the way.”

Ingrid’s face grew warm in the cool winter air. “And you look…” _So much like your brother, it aches. “_...every bit the dashing swordsman.”

This time it was Felix’s turn to blush, which he covered with a “That letter told you to say that, didn’t it?”

“Of course not!” She couldn't help but laugh, just a little. “Now come on; let’s go see what they’re serving for dinner.”

Felix threw back his head and laughed, the sound so rough and clear it made Ingrid’s heart twist. _He ought to do that more. Like he used to. _“You and food,” he got out. 

“Just like you and weapons,” she shot back, and he laughed again. 

Maybe if the world could just stay like this, she’d end up okay tonight.

-)

The reception hall looked nothing like itself.

Gone were the long tables and ugly wall sconces. Instead, small, round tables were spread throughout the room, each with a candelabra, decorative ivy, and place settings for six. Felix gave their names to the herald at the main entrance, and it felt strange to Ingrid to hear her name announced beside a Fraldarius that wasn’t Glenn.

She spent the dinner portion of the evening at a raucous table with Claude, Hilda, Annette, Mercedes, and Felix. The Golden Deer’s clever leader was truly a force of nature, cracking jokes and making interesting observations about this and that (“Poor Professor Byleth! Do you think she’s ever had to wear heels before?” and “Why is Alois crying like he’s just walked his daughter down the aisle or something?”). 

Hilda would occasionally chime in with something that made the table laugh and Claude blush, and Annette had no end of interesting tales to tell about her years at the School of Sorcery (Mercedes would chime in with a detail or two). Even Felix seemed rigid than usual with a few glasses of wine in him. He was trading barbs with Claude that were almost--_almost--_more like jokes than insults.

And when the dancing began, with Dimitri and Edelgard claiming the floor, and Claude not too far behind dragging dear Professor Byleth, the Tragedy of Duscur had never felt so far away.

Throughout the night, she danced with Dimitri and with Claude, with Caspar and with Sylvain, whirling in time with music that swelled like the frozen winds of her homeland, marched like the Imperial army, or swayed like the forests of the Alliance. These were good men, she knew, down to the heart of them. Their classes had grown and fought together over their years at the Officers’ Academy, and the idea that their last semester loomed lurid on the horizon hurt more than she had ever expected.

It wasn’t until she caught sight of Felix dancing with Mercedes--that sober Fraldarius blue topped with black hair, and a head of blonde hair beside it--that Ingrid felt her heart twist and threaten to snap. The vaguest memories of learning to dance rushed to mind, the summers at Fraldarius Manor where her dance partner had always been--

_No. _

She wouldn't think about him. She had been doing so well this entire evening in not thinking about him that she wasn’t about to break it now.

It was suddenly stiflingly hot in the main hall, and Ingrid couldn't breathe in her corset anymore. Slipping away from the dance floor, she snatched up her capelet from the back of her chair and hurriedly disappeared out into the courtyard.

The crisp night air struck her flushed face like so many little needles. She drew in great lungfuls of air as she rushed into the courtyard beside their classrooms, which were currently all closed for the evening. Fairy lights were strung up amongst some of the trees, and Ingrid passed more than one couple locked in a tangle of limbs as she pressed forward. Most didn’t seem to notice her, and she preferred it as such.

_Don't think about it, Ingrid. Don’t think of him._

What was the _matter_ with her? Ordinarily, she had no trouble going about her life, and it had been a long time since merely looking at Felix had made her heart hurt. He just looked so damn much like _him, _especially with his hair down. It wasn’t fair of her, she knew, to compare the two brothers, but it was just so hard _not _to.

The elder had been kind, beneath his cool demeanor (and downright fervent, in the fleeting moments they’d had alone), and a master swordsman--just like the younger. He had also been the youngest knight ever in service to the royal family, or so the stories went; the very image of nobility and Faerghus Pride. Ingrid had been so proud of him_, _the day he’d earned his black iron spur, that she’d feared her heart would burst in happiness.

She wasn’t sure when exactly Felix had started tying his hair back all the time, but she knew it was because he looked less like his older brother that way. She also wasn’t sure when he had picked up the biting sarcasm and acerbic wit, either. Had he learned it from his brother, or was it hereditary? 

Was it before, or after the Tragedy?

Honestly, everything was ‘before or after the Tragedy,’ and it made Ingrid ill. 

And while Felix didn’t seem to have an issue with it, Ingrid found it too hard to picture herself changing without _him _here to see it. She’d told Annette as much once, in one of the only times she’d ever spoken about him to someone who wasn’t family, or nearly so. It was why her hair was still so long, why she still wore thick braids and Galatea green and no makeup.

Ingrid could also recall, with vivid clarity, the last time she’d ever seen him.

_Good luck, _she’d said as he saddled his beloved charger. _Goddess go with you. _

He had stolen a look over his shoulder--no doubt, checking for his father--and then pressed a quick, soft kiss to her lips. _I won’t be needing luck or gods, _he had said. _So long as I have your favor._

He had flashed her the green ribbon tied around his wrist, just above where his glove met his bracer, and she had smiled.

_Be safe, _she had said.

_I’ll see you soon, _he had said.

But Ingrid had never seen Glenn Fraldarius again. 

There had never been a body to carry home. His death was so brutal and violent that all that remained were his shattered breastplate and sword, which had come home with a green ribbon tied around the hilt. 

Ingrid had cried ceaselessly, to the point that for a while she was convinced she no longer had tears. She hadn’t left her room for anything--not for meals with her family, not when Felix and Dimitri came to visit, and not to brush Odessa--right up until Sylvain got himself headfirst into some trouble with a nobleman’s daughter and she knew she’d have to fix it before he lost his head, or worse.

And, _then, _to make matters worse, Felix and Dimitri and gone and served in the rebellion two years later. Some nights she awoke screaming, with blood and fire clawing at the edges of her dreams. She had paced the halls of Galatea Manor ceaselessly, wondering if she was only ever going to see their shattered armor, too. 

By the grace of the goddess, they had both come home safe, but neither was ever quite “sound” again. Felix had grown sharper, colder, and had never quite looked at Dimitri the same way again. And the Prince had _seemed _himself, as gallant and introverted as ever. But as this year had worn on, slowly the cracks were beginning to show in his demeanor. 

_Kill them all, _he had ordered at Remire Village. _Don’t let a single one of them escape. Sever their limbs, and crush their wicked skulls!_

And what could she say to that, besides _Yes, your Highness_\--just like Glenn did?

And oh, _why _did have to be Glenn? He who was so kind, and so understanding, and had never told her that her dreams of being a knight were stupid or unattainable? _We’ll be the best battle couple they’ve ever seen, _Glenn had promised, his hands laced through hers late one night when the candles had burned low, _we’ll outclass even King Loog and his Queen!_

And like a fool, she had believed him. Like a lovestruck teenage girl, she had believed those sparkling green eyes and soft words.

And _why _was she standing outside the goddess tower? It was a small mercy that she hadn’t stumbled upon yet another couple tangled up in the darkness, since this was where they all tended to congregate on the night of the ball. She had heard her classmates buzzing about it, all these years. _Who will you ask to the goddess tower? _Or _I can’t get anyone to go with me…_

Ingrid pressed her hands into the stone fencing near the bridge to the tower, and tried very hard not to cry, think about Glenn, or both. The icy cold seeped into her fingers and helped to ground her. She could do this, right? She always had.

“Fancy meeting you here,” a familiar voice said behind her.

Ingrid’s head snapped around so fast, she heard her neck crack in three places. But it was only Felix, quietly taking up the space behind her and holding two champagne flutes. She was so utterly stunned, it took her a moment to find her voice.

He took it for something else entirely. “If you’re, um, meeting someone I can go,” Felix said after a long, agonizing moment of silence. “I just thought… never mind, forget it.” He turned to leave.

“Wait.” Ingrid couldn’t recall moving, but suddenly she had her hand on his arm, and Felix had turned to face her. It was a small mercy that his eyes were a deep amber, she supposed, and not pale green, or she would never have been able to look him in the face again. 

“Don’t go,” she said, so softly she barely heard it herself.

Felix’s facial expression didn’t change so much as soften somehow. He held out one of the flutes to her. “You’re missing your favorite part. Archbishop Rhea was getting ready for her annual toast when I left.”

Ingrid laughed, just a little, and tightened her fingers around the champagne flute. “You’re welcome to go back. I know you do so love being told what to do.”

“Don’t even joke,” Felix muttered.

Maybe it was just the soft winter breeze and the starlight, but he was utterly, breath-takingly handsome, and Ingrid could finally (and privately) admit to herself that she had always thought so. Realistically, though, it was probably mostly because he looked so much like Glenn, and for that reason, she kept her mouth shut.

“Are you doing okay?” Felix asked after another agonizing silence.

Something twanged painfully deep in her chest, and she had to look away from him. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Ingrid felt a hand on her arm, and glanced up, only to be pinned down in Felix’s sharp gaze. He missed nothing; it was currently quite painful. “Because we both know balls aren’t really your thing,” he said, “and that I look a lot like my brother.”

It was one thing to her to think it; it was absolutely another for him to say it out loud. “That isn’t your fault,” Ingrid said at once, and judging from the way Felix’s face twisted, she realized too late it was the wrong answer.

“I’ll go find Sylvain,” Felix muttered, turning away again.

For a moment, Ingrid had the absurd feeling that if she let him walk away now, he would never turn back. “Felix, wait!”

She grasped his arm now, feeling warmth where she made contact, even through his tunic sleeve. He was regarding her with a wary, swordmaster's eye, taking in weak points and waiting for signs of movement.

“I’m sorry,” Ingrid said, her voice uncharacteristically small. 

“It’s not your fault, either.” One by one, Felix pried her fingers off of his sleeve, before curling them in on themselves and studying them for a long moment. “You’re just as scarred as I am.” Quietly and without fuss, he pressed a soft kiss to the thin white lines crisscrossing her knuckles before releasing his grip. His lips left fire in their wake. “Let’s go find Sylvain.”

How could she possibly explain that she didn’t _want _Sylvain, didn’t _want _ruddy red and boisterous cheer? That she was tired of dancing around the point with Felix, tired of looking into those sad amber eyes and feeling a chasm open up beneath her feet?

“I know you miss him, too,” Ingrid called to his retreating back.

And Felix stopped cold. 

She watched as his free hand curled into a fist, as his shoulders shook and his whole body tensed. _“Don’t.”_

“Why?” Ingrid fired back. “So that you can keep tying your hair up and smashing your sword into things and pretending you don’t feel anything?”

He whirled around so fast, Ingrid didn’t even see it. He was just suddenly looming before her, despite the fact that they were very nearly the same height (much to Felix’s perennial annoyance). “So that _you _can go back to throwing yourself off a cliff clinging to _knighthood _and _honor _and I don’t have to _watch!” _

It was like he’d slammed a war axe into her ribs; it was suddenly so _very _hard to breathe. “You have no right!” 

“Oh, I have every right!” Felix was absolutely seething. “You’re doing something stupid; am I just meant to sit back and watch?”

Ingrid opened her mouth to snap back, but Felix wasn’t even close to finished.

“Am I supposed to just let you die, too? Pocket your black iron spur and bury your shattered armor, but leave your body to rot in some goddess-forsaken field? Act like your death is some noble and valiant effort and lay stupid flowers on your grave, when all I want to do is scream at the ones who let you do this?”

She found her voice, at least partially. “I’m not going to die just because I want to be a knight, Felix.”

“I don’t want you _killed, _Ingrid. Why is that so difficult to comprehend?”

“I’m prepared to lay down my life in service to my king,” Ingrid snapped back. “Why aren’t you?”

Amber eyes shot open wide, and Felix looked like he’d just been shot. “What the fuck do you mean, why aren’t I? Were you even _listening?”_

Ingrid’s hands balled into fists at her sides. “Not every knight is your brother, Felix!”

“But every knight meets the same end.”

They were glaring at each other, seething, like alley cats fighting or wolves circling. 

And then—

“Dimitri doesn’t deserve you, Ingrid,” Felix ground out. 

All her anger came to a screeching halt. Ingrid wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting him to say, but that sure as hell wasn’t it. “I beg your pardon?”

“Dimitri? The Boar Prince?” Felix said slowly, as if speaking to an idiot. “He doesn't deserve your loyalty, and certainly not your death. Why don’t you see that?”

Beneath the acid, he sounded… well, wounded. It was a rare thing to see so clearly through Felix’s heavy emotional armor and biting wit. A beautiful thing. An easy thing to fuck up, too.

“Felix,” Ingrid said, softly now, drawing closer to him, “you won’t lose me to Dimitri.”

“Easy to say when he’s out of earshot,” Felix said, still tense like a startled cat. “But come morning, I know exactly where you’ll be.”

He was trying to brush past the point, and she knew it. “Felix,” Ingrid said again, very softly, and very much in his personal space. “I’m right here.”

“For now.” His gaze kept flicking down to her lips. “When it’s easy.”

“For as long as you let me in,” she corrected, and leaned forward the last few inches to press her lips to his.

Ingrid wasn’t exactly sure what possessed her or what she was trying to accomplish, but all reason went out of her head when Felix kissed her back. She would have expected his kiss to be sharp as his tongue, but it was sweet and soft, his impossibly warm hand reaching up to cradle her cheek and draw her closer. She could taste the alcohol on his breath, the cloying sweetness of the champagne, and for a moment, the world stayed just like this.

And then, just as suddenly, he jerked back, his champagne flute shattering on the flagstones as it slipped from cold, shocked fingers. “I shouldn't have done that.”

“Felix,” Ingrid said, and he flinched at the sound of his name, “it’s okay.”

And just like that, the armor was back in place.

“You don’t mean that,” he snapped back. “I’m not Glenn.”

Shame burned in her cheeks, hot and painful. “I know you're not.”

“No, no, no.” Felix was visibly shaking now, but from what? “If you wanted to kiss _me, _that would be one thing. But I know you, Ingrid; I know you don’t. You miss Glenn, and I’m just enough like him to try.”

Ingrid hardly felt her own heart shatter; mostly, she just felt Felix’s accusing glare burning a hole straight through her soul. Was he right? Was it just the Fraldarius blue hair, the tone of voice, the wine? The feeling of being maybe, possibly, _wanted? _

Something sour rolled in her stomach, threatening to bring back up everything she’d eaten today.

“That isn’t…” Ingrid tried, but the words were sticking in her throat. 

Was he right?

To some degree, she supposed, it didn’t matter. Right this moment, she had hurt one of her oldest and dearest friends, and the chasm beneath her feet had opened so wide it had swallowed them whole. Ingrid wasn’t sure she’d ever climb out, let alone reach him.

“Tell me it isn’t true,” Felix growled. “Go on.”

It was a challenge, dangling between them like a burning olive branch.

Ingrid heard herself hyperventilating, felt wetness pool in the corners of her eyes. She was trying to form words, trying to make them both understand what in the hell just happened. But all she could do was cry, just like she had four years ago when she’d heard the news of Glenn’s death, and two years ago when she’d heard rumors of Felix and Dimitri’s death in the rebellion.

In some ways, she supposed, nothing was really all that different, now. But in other ways, nothing was even close to the same.

She threw her arms around him, drawing him as close as she possibly could. “I’m sorry.” Ingrid’s arms shook under the force with which she clung to him. “I’m so sorry.”

Felix heaved a sigh, and she felt his arms tighten across her back. He held her as she cried into the soft fur on his shoulder, and he settled his chin into the crook of her neck.

“You don’t have to apologize for continuing to live.” His voice was all soft edges and shuttered fire. “But I’m not Glenn, Ingrid, and I never will be. Don’t…” He stopped, and then grew very quiet. “Don’t confuse me for his ghost.”

So she cried for him, and she cried for her. She cried for what they’d lost, and she cried for the ghosts of what would never be. She cried for Dimitri, and Sylvain, and Lord Rodrigue, and everyone else who had never been the same. 

But mostly, though, Ingrid just cried. 

For his part, Felix—who was warm and solid and very much alive—just held her. And in that moment, Ingrid finally understood what he had meant, all those times he had said:

“You shouldn’t be nice to me.” 

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Felix said bluntly. “You’re bleeding, and I’m a bandage.”

She struggled to articulate it. “It just makes it too hard.”

Felix winced, and it went through his whole body. “I get it. But I’m not leaving.”

Ingrid was torn on the agonizing edge of “please don’t” and “please do.”

“Count the small mercies,” Felix said, quietly. 

Ingrid drew in a shuddering breath. She could do that. “You, Sylvain, and me are all at the Academy together.”

“Good start,” he urged. “Go on.”

“I’m…” Ingrid struggled to come up with more. “...getting better with makeup. It isn’t as hard to be around couples anymore. Mercedes and Annette are good friends to me.”

“Also good.” For a moment, Felix tensed, as if waiting for something. And then he squeezed her tightly to his chest before quietly letting go. “You’re getting there.”

But Ingrid didn’t let go. She held fast to his shoulders, unmoving. 

“I still care.” She didn’t wait for Felix to question it. “I know you’re not…” She drew in a shuddering breath. “...not Glenn. I still care.”

“We’re friends,” he got out roughly. “In a better life, we’d already be family. Of course you care.” Softer, he added, “I do, too.”

_Goddess, _she wanted to kiss him. She desperately wanted to press her lips into the pale, ghostly column of his throat and bury her nose in his familiar scent. To run her hands through his long, fine hair and feel his heartbeat against her skin. He was so close, and yet so terribly far. If only she could…

_No. _

This was wrong. Very wrong. _Was it just the Fraldarius blue hair, the tone of voice, the wine? _

Until she could answer that question, this train of thought was very, _very _wrong. She owed him so much more than this, bleeding or not. 

It took every ounce of her courage to step away, to disentangle her fingers from his furs and smooth back his collar. She did her best not to linger, trying instead to scrub the tears from her eyes, but her fingers came away black. 

Distantly, she remembered the makeup. Annette was going to kill her. 

“We should head inside,” Ingrid said. 

“Hold on,” Felix said, “you’ve got a little… um. Here.”

He threw his cloak further back over his shoulder, exposing the black sleeve of his tunic. With startling gentleness, Felix dragged his newly cloth-covered thumb across Ingrid’s face, first clearing away the runny makeup from under one eye, and then the other. She could feel his warm breath on her face, the little puffs of frost against her skin.

Ingrid tried to drum up something indignant to say, but couldn’t find the words. 

“There.” Felix took his hand back and reset his cloak. “They’ll never know.”

He held his elbow out again, and wordlessly, Ingrid allowed herself to be herded back towards the reception hall. She could feel the distance between them growing despite their linked arms, could feel the chasm swallowing her whole, but was powerless to stop any of it. At some point she became aware that she was no longer holding onto her champagne glass and vaguely wondered where it had gone. 

Sylvain discovered them just as they rounded on the Officers’ Academy courtyard. “There you are!” the cavalier yelped. “I’ve been looking all over for you! Dimitri convinced the string quartet to play… wait.”

Sylvain came to an aggressive halt a few feet from his friends, his gaze flicking from

Ingrid to Felix and back again. His facial expression fell from excited to something far softer, and he reached into his cloak and rummaged about a moment. 

“Here, Ingrid.” Sylvain held out a handkerchief embroidered with the Gautier crest. “Your makeup’s run.”

Quietly, Ingrid accepted it. “Thank you.”

The cavalier nodded, and then made a show of brushing something off the fur on Felix’s shoulder. Ingrid took the opportunity to wipe at her eyes, her cheeks, her lips, until the white cloth was stained with reds and pinks and black. 

“Felix, you, uh, also need to go like this.” Sylvain dragged his hand across his lips a few times. 

Felix’s eyes shot open, and he immediately did so. Reddish stain came away on his hand, and Ingrid felt her face light up in complete and utter humiliation. 

“There,” Sylvain said with a decisive nod, and then a wink. “They’ll never know.”

“Do you, um,” Ingrid began, staring at the ruined cloth in her hands, “want this back?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Sylvain plucked the handkerchief from her grasp and shoved it back in his pocket. He then took a moment to study Ingrid’s face, only to announce with a small, genuine smile, “There’s our Ingrid.”

At once, he snapped back to himself. “Now come on! I wouldn’t let them start without you.” Sylvain looped an arm around both Felix and Ingrid’s elbows and began dragging them bodily back toward the entrance hall. 

“Start _what?” _Felix said. 

Sylvain’s grin only grew. “The Battleborn Hymn!”

Known as the unofficial national anthem, the Battleborn Hymn was the first lullaby in a child’s life and last call at every tavern. It was chanted by children in schoolyards and roared by knights on the battlefield. There wasn’t a soul alive in Faerghus who didn’t know the words, and no one, not the highest king or lowliest farmer, could resist singing along.

Felix, Ingrid, and Sylvain burst through the doors amidst whooping excitement. Gone was the relaxed, festive atmosphere of dinner—and the solemn, holy one of Lady Rhea’s annual speech—and instead the hall was filled with bright light and raucous laughter. The sudden warmth of the monastery stung Ingrid’s eyes and made them water, to the point that she was suddenly very grateful to Sylvain for ensuring she had no more makeup to ruin.

Their little band of three wrapped themselves arm-in-arm with their classmates, somehow ending up across the circle from Prince Dimitri, who had one arm around Dedue and one around the Professor. Ingrid had one arm around Felix’s slender waist, the other around Sylvain’s bulky frame, and an arm from each of them slung across her shoulders. 

Despite the deep ache in her chest, Ingrid hadn’t felt so safe since Glenn died.

_In my final hour in this world,_

_My brothers, don’t delay._

_And my final breaths, as they unfurl,_

_My sisters, do not stray._

_Goddess guide my arrows true,_

_And forgive me should I fall;_

_It’s the end of days, and in all we do:_

_We must heed the clarion’s call._

Ingrid could hear the voices near her so clearly in the soft opening lament—Sylvain’s loud and boisterous, Felix’s lower, hoarser, but no less strong, Annette’s sweet and clear, and Mercedes’ brimming with genuine joy. 

But this song wasn’t chanted the world over because it was a lament.

_In my final hour in this world,_

_I will stand with head held high._

_And my final breaths, as they unfurl,_

_They will bear a warrior’s cry._

_Sothis dear, forgive all I’ve done,_

_And for all I’ve yet to do._

_It’s the end of days, and when we’ve all gone,_

_Our names will all ring true._

Boots were stomping, now, the hellish rhythm of war rising. Even in all their finery, the sons and daughters of Faerghus were still wolves--

Or rather, lions.

_So awake, my soul, and arise, my blood,_

_The time has come at last._

_So awake, dear kin, and arise, dear friends,_

_The time for doubt has passed._

_Rise, oh, rise. _

_Rise, we rise. _

_When did Dimitri teach Dedue the Battleborn Hymn? _Ingrid wondered. Surely the Duscur boy hadn’t wished to learn it? And the Prince, so shy most of the time, was singing at the top of his lungs; his booming voice echoed across the reception hall. And who had taken the time to teach Petra, who had only recently transferred to their class? _Ashe, _Ingrid supposed, _or maybe Mercedes?_

_In my final hour in this world,_

_My sword and strength are yours,_

_And my final breaths, as they unfurl,_

_Our victory, secures. _

_So raise our banner and raise it high,_

_As we march towards certain doom _

_It’s the end of days, a good one to die,_

_And we ride, we glorious few. _

Ingrid’s heart was so full—of joy, of sorrow, of sheer just _ache_—that she thought for a moment it might burst. But then she felt Sylvain’s heavy grasp, and Felix’s unflinching support, and could only sing louder:

_So awake, my soul, and arise, my blood,_

_The time has come at last._

_So awake, dear kin, and arise, dear friends,_

_The time for doubt has passed._

_Rise, oh, rise. _

_Rise, we rise. _


End file.
